The Equalizer

by Michael Sloan

  “It was that or break his neck. The arm will heal. I don’t have time for an apology.”

  Alicia’s blue eyes bore into his face. Then she nodded and turned.

  “Jeb!” she called.

  One of the Brakers came out of the shadows. He was a young man, probably early twenties, in jeans and a sport coat and a tie. He looked like he had just started law school.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, with reverence.

  “Show Mr. Foozelman’s guest the way to get to the City Hall station.”

  “I have a map,” McCall said.

  The stately older woman looked back at him. “Did Mr. Foozelman draw it for you?”

  “I did,” Fooz piped up.

  “One of the tunnels you would have outlined has collapsed,” Alicia said. “You have to divert around it.” Her eyes had not left McCall’s face. “Jeb will show you the quickest way.”

  “Come with me,” Jeb said.

  McCall looked at Fooz. He nodded. McCall followed Jeb to the edge of the vault where it dropped down like a cliff face. Six feet below them was a subway tunnel, lit up by lights along both sides.

  “It’s not used anymore,” Jeb said, and motioned to a black maintenance ladder a few feet from them.

  Jeb went down the ladder first.

  “I need help with this young man,” Dr. Bennett’s voice echoed.

  McCall turned and saw two more of the Brakers come out of the shadows. They hoisted their comrade up, supporting him under both arms. Dr. Bennett looked at Alicia.

  “May I take him to a hospital?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Does he have ID? A driver’s license? Credit card?”

  “Most of us have them. We choose not to use them.” She turned toward the edge of the vault where it fell away to the tunnel below. Her eyes locked with McCall’s. She smiled. McCall couldn’t read it. Either good luck or you’re a dead man. He wondered if she knew all about the killers waiting for him in City Hall subway station.

  McCall saw Fooz move to Dr. Bennett’s side. They walked back down the vault, carrying the injured Braker between them, shadows streaming across their figures. Finally there was only Alicia’s regal figure left. Then she turned and was gone.

  McCall climbed down the metal ladder to the subway tunnel below.

  Jeb was already halfway down it. McCall took out the folded Filofax page that Fooz had given him, but now the shakily drawn lines on it made no sense. Jeb found a narrow door in one of the niches and unlocked it with his own set of keys. They had to squeeze through it. He led McCall through six narrower tunnels with pipes running along the ceilings and the walls. It was very humid. McCall lost all sense of direction. He could not even have retraced his steps. All of the tunnels looked more or less the same. He did pass one tunnel that had caved in. It was impassable. Jeb didn’t even pause. He led McCall down three more tunnels that interconnected. As they came to yet another one, McCall heard the sound of a train coming, faintly at first, then getting louder. The tunnel began to vibrate. Jeb reached up and caught hold of one of the pipes. McCall grabbed a pipe on the wall. They held on as the subway train thundered past in the next tunnel. It was very loud. Then the sound and the shaking diminished and it was gone.

  “That should be the last number six train to Brooklyn Bridge,” Jeb said. “It’s going on to City Hall station now to loop around and go back into the city.”

  They ran on down the tunnel.

  Jeb suddenly stopped and looked around, as if unsure where he was.

  McCall looked down at his luminous watch dial.

  11:57 P.M.

  He wasn’t going to make it in time.

  Jeb headed down a very narrow tunnel that intersected the main one. He came to an iron door hidden in a niche that McCall might never have seen. Jeb shook the ring of keys out of his jacket pocket and tried one of them. It turned the lock. He stepped back and looked at McCall.

  “Far as I go,” he said. “Those stairs lead up to City Hall station. Where they come out in the station, I have no idea.”

  “Give me the key to that door.”

  Jeb hesitated, then pried the key off his ring and handed it to McCall, who put it into his jacket pocket. Jeb held out a pale hand. McCall shook it. Then he walked back down the narrow tunnel, turned the corner, and was gone.

  McCall took out the Rosewood Sig Sauer 238 from the holster on his right hip. He carried the sports bag in his left hand. He ran halfway up a marble staircase and stopped and listened.

  He heard the faintest murmur of a voice echoing from above. There was static, then the words ceased. Someone reporting in on a walkie.

  McCall walked up the marble steps to the City Hall subway station.

  The stairs ended in another iron door, also locked. McCall cursed softly. He fished the silver key out of his jacket pocket and put it into the lock. It was stiff and the lock was coated with rust, but eventually he got it to turn. He dropped the key back into his pocket and hauled the door open.

  McCall was in the subway tunnel, in a niche about twenty yards from the City Hall platform. There were other niches on both sides of the tunnel, but the closest two to him had no doors that he could see. Low-wattage bulbs glowered on either side of the tunnel in small recesses. They barely provided any light at all. McCall looked to his left. The station platform glowed like a golden jewel. There were three blue skylights in the ceiling, city lights shafting down through them. They had wrought-iron designs like huge ornate iron butterflies hovering above. McCall noted the Roman brick wainscoting and leaded glass in the skylights. The terra-cotta tiles on the station platform were black and gold and followed the curve of the roof. McCall remembered reading about City Hall subway station in some New York magazine about the hidden architecture of the city. The architect was Rafael Guastavino, a Valencian Spaniard. The station platform had been designed with Guastavino ceiling tile and decorative tile and was held up by timbrel Guastavino vaulting. There were plaques on the tunnel wall opposite the platform commemorating the construction of the subway. Eleven chandeliers hung over the platform at intervals. There wasn’t an unlit bulb.

  McCall could just make out a set of stairs in the center of the platform, probably another staircase on the far side. On his side of the platform was a small, narrow wooden booth with window panels on both sides. McCall wasn’t sure what it had been used for.

  On the platform itself were four armed men, all in black, carrying AK-47 assault rifles with 378 mm front sights and curved magazines. They looked to McCall like mercenaries. Three of them were at the far end. The fourth man stood beside the wooden booth, smoking a cigarette. Belomorkanal. McCall would recognize the sweet odor anywhere after having smoked at least a package of them playing the role of Vladimir Gredenko.

  There was a low but high-pitched sound growing in volume. One more train. The noise of it hummed and intensified. The three men at the far end of the platform climbed up the marble stairs there until they were out of sight. The mercenary on McCall’s side of the platform threw his cigarette onto the tracks and stepped inside the wooden booth where he wouldn’t be seen. Not that the driver of the last train from Brooklyn Bridge would be looking for anyone on the platform.

  The station began to vibrate with the sound of the oncoming train. McCall could see its light growing brighter in the tunnel mouth. He dropped the sports bag onto the ground in the niche behind him and unzipped it.

  He had only seconds.

  He picked up the M16 and slammed in the magazine and flipped up the MP night-vision goggles.

  The subway train thundered into City Hall station.

  McCall stepped right back into the shadow of the niche, flattening himself against the concrete wall. If the driver wasn’t looking for anyone on the platform, he certainly wasn’t going to be scouring the tunnel niches for figures. But McCall didn’t want a flash of reflection to catch the driver’s eye.

  The train raced through the station without slowing. As the first carriage
went past the niche, McCall stepped out and aimed the M16 at the platform. He centered the sight on the side window of the wooden booth. He could clearly see the figure of the mercenary in it.

  With the loud clattering of the subway train still coming through the station to mask the noise, McCall fired a burst with the M16.

  The window shattered.

  Part of the mercenary’s head was blown away.

  Then the train was past the niche and rumbling on down the tunnel, making the turn to head back into the city.

  McCall lowered the M16, leaned down, picked up the sports bag in his left hand, and edged along the tunnel wall, keeping his back straight against it, taking small steps, careful not to get close to the live rail.

  Now he only had seconds again.

  He felt like he was creeping along in agonizing slow motion, but he reached the edge of the platform and hauled himself up onto it. He ran the few feet to the wooden structure, threw open the door, and went inside. The body of the mercenary lay at his feet. He closed the door and looked through the grimy glass of the window facing the platform.

  The three other mercenaries had walked back down the stairs at the other end. They glanced down the platform, but didn’t think it particularly strange their comrade had not come out of the wooden structure. There was a stool in there, and a shelf for a desk, with a paperback book on it and a can of Diet Coke. Obviously the guard didn’t want to spend all of his time prowling up and down the platform looking for—what? McCall could not be coming at them from down here. He could only have reached the platform if he had been on the last train and had bribed the driver to stop it in the station. That hadn’t happened. But the mercenaries were down there just in case.

  They couldn’t see the bullet-smashed window from their end of the platform. The glass had exploded inside the narrow wooden structure. McCall stepped back so he was not silhouetted in the window facing the platform, although the glass was so dirty he doubted they could have seen him. He dropped the sports bag beside the guard’s body and leaned the M16 against the wall of the structure.

  He had to locate the position of the hostages.

  And he had to do something about the lights.

  He looked at his watch.

  12:07 A.M.

  As far as Berezovsky was concerned, he was late.

  * * *

  Natalya groped her way in utter darkness across the storeroom. The picture of it was imprinted in her mind. She’d always been good at that. Seeing a place, or a photograph, and being able to remember it in almost perfect detail. Kuzbec had not bothered to tie her up.

  Big mistake.

  She had no weapons, but she was going to improvise. She had seen what she wanted in her mind. Now she just had to find it.

  She bumped up against the shelving on the opposite wall. She felt along the top shelf, but it contained paper products. She wanted the second shelf. She reached down and ran her hands along it until she found the shape of a thin plastic bottle.

  Windex.

  She remembered there was a discarded red nozzle beside it. She groped around on the shelf and found it. She shook the Windex bottle. It had maybe a tablespoon of liquid left in the bottom. She poured it out, set it carefully back on the second shelf, then got down on her hands and knees.

  What she was looking for had been on the bottom shelf toward the back of the storeroom.

  She groped along the bottom shelf: heavy plastic bottles. The first one was empty. She tossed it aside. The second one was about a quarter full. She twisted off the cap and sniffed. It smelled like vinegar—not the right one. She replaced the cap and moved along on her knees to the last bottle on the shelf. She lifted it. It was half full, the liquid sloshing inside. She twisted off the cap and almost gagged on the smell of the industrial-strength liquid detergent. She lifted the bottle off the bottom shelf and put it on the storeroom floor. She reached up and ran her hands along the middle shelf until she found the Windex bottle. She grabbed it, along with the nozzle. Carefully, in total blackness, she picked up the industrial cleaner by the handle while she held the Windex bottle in her left hand. She poured the industrial cleaner into the Windex bottle, most of it cascading onto the floor. She edged away from the spill and poured enough so that the Windex bottle was half full. Then she set the heavy container of industrial strength cleaner down, twisted the cap back on, and put the bottle back in its place on the bottom shelf. She groped along the floor until she found the Windex bottle. She almost tipped it over, but caught it in time. She felt around for the Windex spray nozzle, found it, and twisted it onto the top of the Windex bottle.

  Natalya got to her feet and tightened the nozzle and gave it a trial run.

  The cleanser sprayed out into the storeroom with a soft whooshing sound.

  Her tormentor would smell it when he returned, but the whole storage room stank of the stuff, so he wouldn’t think anything of it.

  She stuffed the Windex bottle into a back pocket of her jeans. It was slim and slid right in. She pulled her Glee sweatshirt down over it, hiding the bottle. Then she got back down on her hands and knees and crawled back to where she’d been sitting against the shelving on the opposite wall. She turned and sat down again, bringing her knees up, her arms around them. The Windex bottle felt both uncomfortable and reassuring in her back pocket.

  So come back for me, you creep, she thought.

  * * *

  In the main station room, almost at street level, Alexei Berezovsky stood at the doors to the once-grand station. A short flight of concrete stairs led up to the street. They were enclosed in an elaborate wooden structure that had a glass roof and sides, even a glass porchlike extension at the front to protect New Yorkers from the rain. It had an elaborate studded domed ceiling. There was an iron gate across the front doors of the station, but the padlock on it was gone and the gate was partially ajar. No one had descended these stairs into the City Hall subway in a long time.

  And no one was descending them now.

  Berezovsky was dressed, like his men, in black, jeans, a turtleneck, Windbreaker, black Nike Flyknit Lunar1 shoes. He carried an AK-47 slung over his left shoulder and a Makarov pistol in a holster on his right hip. Kuzbec, Salam, Rachid, and three more mercenaries stood in the gloom of the ticket office, which was lit by two work lights in the corners. Scott stood in front of the ticket booth, handcuffed to the railing, his attention fixed on the entrance to the station. His breathing was shallow and rapid. It was cold in the room, but perspiration streamed down his face.

  Berezovsky pulled back a black glove and glanced at the watch on his wrist. He looked over at Scott.

  “Your father is late for his rendezvous. How long ago was it that he abandoned his family? Ten years? Twelve? How old were you when he left?”

  Scott bit his lip and didn’t answer.

  Berezovsky reached him in three steps and backhanded him. His voice was a coarse whisper.

  “When you are asked a question by a grown-up in a position of authority, you snide little American brat, it is only good manners to respond. Or does your mother allow rudeness along with all of the other compromised Western morals?”

  “I was five,” Scott muttered.

  There was a trickle of blood out of his nose.

  Berezovsky motioned to Salam. The enforcer produced a handkerchief from his pocket. Gently Berezovsky wiped the blood from below Scott’s nose and handed the handkerchief back. Salam risked a disgusted glance at Rachid, but put the handkerchief back into his pocket without comment.

  Berezovsky scared the hell out of all of them.

  The Chechen boss moved away from Scott, through the violet shadows. He nodded. “Five years old. A cold-blooded thing for a father to do. And I imagine there has been no contact with him in the intervening years. What a pity he did not see his only son grow up. But what you don’t see, you can’t feel. Your loved ones become so distant they are no longer your family. They are memories, perhaps fond, perhaps not. There is a real possibility y
our father will not come for you at all.”

  “He’ll be here,” Scott said tersely, and was as surprised by the utterance as Berezovsky.

  He turned to look at him.

  “You really believe that?”

  “I do,” Scott said, his voice a little stronger.

  “Why?”

  “He’s my father.”

  It was a simple statement, and not one Scott thought he would ever have made.

  Berezovsky nodded again. “You could be right. But if he does come, it won’t be for you. It will be for the two women. Natalya—I believe she is like a surrogate daughter to him.”

  Scott didn’t answer.

  “Won’t rise to that emotional bait? Good for you. Maybe there’s a little of your father’s mettle in you. He will respond to Natalya’s voice.” Berezovsky looked at Kuzbec. “I will have to force her to speak. She does not utter a word anymore. Post-traumatic stress. She was brutally attacked on a New York street one month after she arrived here. Welcome to the promised land.”

  Berezovsky had not taken his eyes off Kuzbec. The young enforcer squirmed inside. Did the great man know he had been Natalya’s attacker? That he had raped the man’s daughter? Perspiration streamed down his face and arms.

  He stank even more.

  But Berezovsky’s voice was calm and modulated.

  “Kuzbec, go to the storeroom. Bring Natalya up here.”

  Kuzbec turned toward one of the two staircases leading to the next level, the fare control area. From there the staircases led down to the platform.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Berezovsky warned, and now Kuzbec felt the chill in his voice. “If you touch her in any inappropriate way, I will cut your balls off and have your colleague Mr. Salam stuff them into your mouth as you bleed to death.”

  Kuzbec moved to the stairs and disappeared down them. Berezovsky looked over at Salam.

  “Do you have a comment, Mr. Salam?”

  “None at all,” Salam said.

  “That’s good.”

  Berezovsky moved back to the doors leading out to the staircase up into the street.

  “Don’t make me wait too long, McCall,” he said softly.